


I'll Always Be Blamed For The Sun Going Down

by candlemaker



Series: Forever is a Close and Honest Friend [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Bucky is sad and gay and will do anything for Steve, Dubious Consent, Gay Bucky Barnes, Great Depression, Greenwich Village, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Prostitution, Readable as a standalone fic, Starring Bucky's low self worth and non-existent decision making skills, Underage Prostitution, he just wants to be wanted even if it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candlemaker/pseuds/candlemaker
Summary: He knows he’s in the right place. He has heard the guys at the docks laugh and joke about the queers who come out after dark, looking to earn a little extra cash. He has seen the johns, when he’s been out late enough, skulking in the shadows like predators hunting for their next meal, looking for something in particular. Sometimes they look at him.A small, rusty pen knife that his father had picked up in Europe during the Great War sits heavy in the breast pocket of his jacket.Just in case.





	I'll Always Be Blamed For The Sun Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> For content warnings please see the end notes.  
> This fic is part of the Forever is a Close and Honest Friend series but can be read as a stand alone fic.

It’s chilly for an August night, a bitter wind picking up then dying down in turn as the drunken shouts of revellers in the distance die away until he can hear nothing but his own footsteps. Bucky turns his collar up against the slight wind and takes a left, then a right, then another left, weaving through the narrow brick-lined alleys of Red Hook towards the harbour.

He knows he’s in the right place. He has heard the guys at the docks laugh and joke about the queers who come out after dark, looking to earn a little extra cash. He has seen the johns, when he’s been out late enough, skulking in the shadows like predators hunting for their next meal, looking for something in particular. Sometimes they look at him.

It’s stupid, so stupid, what he’s about to do. It would bring his mother to tears if she knew, and Stevie-

He can’t think about Steve right now.

A small, rusty pen knife that his father had picked up in Europe during the Great War sits heavy in the breast pocket of his jacket. Just in case.

He’s standing close enough to the street lamp for his profile to be illuminated in amber, but far enough away to be able to slip back into the shadows if a cop (or worse, someone he knows) looks in his direction. Pulling his thin jacket tighter around himself, he tucks his body a little closer to the wall of the building behind him, hoping to shelter from the chill of the night air. He’s lucky it’s still summer. In the winter, he’ll have to be more careful, wear two pairs of socks if he can find them and patch up some of the holes in his old winter coat –

 _Jesus,_ how was he already thinking about this as a long term plan?

But it seems so perfect – they’re in desperate need of money, and Bucky could get it for them, easily. It’s not like he’s selling their prize possessions, or anything they really need. It’s just his body, probably only for a handful of minutes. If everything goes to plan, he could earn more tonight than he would in a whole day of backbreaking hard labour down at the docks. It would be selfish of him _not_ to do this, and to withhold the money they need for rent, for food, for Steve’s medicine, just for the sake of his pride.

It had been nearly three years since his father had died, leaving his mother responsible for feeding herself and four children on her meagre wages. Bucky had stepped up, dropping out of school despite being consistently the top of his class, and taking on a full-time role at the docks. His mother and Steve had begged him not to throw away his life and to at least finish his education, but deep down they all knew he didn’t have a choice. The Barnes family hadn’t been spared when the Depression hit.

His wages were decent. He knew he got a little more than the other boys his age that worked there – maybe the foreman felt sorry for him, knowing he was trying to support his mother and three little girls in the wake of his father’s death. Maybe he just appreciated the fact that Bucky worked harder than anyone else at the docks, never sneaking off for unauthorised breaks or whining about the ever-present back pain the work caused. Between his wages, his mother’s, his father’s meagre military pension and Becca’s paper round, they were able to scrape together the money for food and bills, with a little leftover. Bucky always insisted that the surplus went on the girls, to buy them new dresses or a trip to the beach. His Ma always insisted that whatever was left after that went to Bucky, in light of how hard he’d worked for it.

And so Bucky ended up with a modest sum of money hidden in a coffee tin under his bed, topped up by a little cash from his boxing matches down at the YMCA, just waiting for the right thing to spend it on. He knew his Ma wanted him to use the money for himself, but he couldn’t think of anything he wanted that didn’t revolve around the girls or Steve; he could try and buy Steve a real easel, or take him and the girls on a little vacation – they’d always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. But Bucky couldn’t seem to commit to one thing that was important enough to spend all his money in the world on – not until Steve’s Ma died, anyway.

Sarah Rogers died in the early summer, burrowed so deep in blankets that they could barely see her as she squeezed Steve’s hand and said her final, quiet words to her son. It had been a blow to them all; Winnifred Barnes had lost the best friend she ever had, Bucky had lost a surrogate mother, and Steve –

Steve had lost everything.

A month later, Steve had turned 17, and he was desperate to get out of the house he had shared with her, haunted by the memory of her laughing in the kitchen or sitting by his bedside. Each time he remembered that she was no longer there and never would be again, it felt like a knife had been plunged into his chest. Every time he sat on their couch and smelled her perfume on the cushions the knife twisted, reminding him of how alone he was in the world with his mother and father both gone.

And Bucky understood, though his own relationship with his father’s lingering presence couldn’t have been more different. Even three years on from his death, Bucky was still haunted by George Barnes. He would hear his sharp reprimands when he walked through the door, see a fist swinging down at him in the corner of his eye when he sat on the couch, awoke to a figure looming over him more often than not. Unlike Steve, Bucky was _glad_ that his father was gone, but he couldn’t escape the memories of him engrained in the house he had lived and died in any more than Steve could escape the fond memories of Sarah that tore him apart.

Besides, Bucky was getting a little old to be living in his mother’s house with three young girls down the hall – he felt guilty and ashamed whenever he would stumble home drunk in the early hours, trying desperately to be quiet. Poor Becca was almost 12, but was still forced to share a room with their two younger sisters – and Bucky was the only thing standing between her and her own independence.

It was decided, then, that he and Steve would get their own place.

To drum up funds for the deposit and the first month’s rent which the landlord demanded be paid upfront, Steve had sold everything of Sarah’s, even as Bucky had begged him not to, adamant that it was unnecessary. But Steve was no fool – in the middle of the Depression, they couldn’t afford to live _and_ hang onto sentimental items that would never be used again.

“Would she want her favourite coat gathering dust in the wardrobe, or putting food on our table?” Steve had asked as if it were no big deal, but Bucky could see the pain in his eyes as he had handed all of his mother’s worldly possessions over to the pawnshop mere weeks after she died.

The Roger’s small, two-bedroom apartment had been the next to go. Even if Steve and Bucky could have afforded the rent – they couldn’t –there were far too many memories wrapped up in the floorboards and curtains for Steve to stay there _and_ stay sane. The landlord had been particularly cruel; despite Sarah never being late with a payment, and being a quiet and conscientious resident for over 20 years, he had fallen over himself to find something wrong with the apartment in order to keep over half of the deposit. What Steve got back was a pittance.

What little he had made from the return of the deposit and the selling of Sarah’s belongings had been ripped from Steve’s hands immediately to pay back the funeral home and the cemetery. The ceremony had been modest, and the grave had a simple, small cross engraved with Sarah’s name in place of a more extravagant headstone, but it had still cost Steve everything he had left.

Finally, Bucky had found a use for his savings, even if Steve couldn’t stand the thought of Bucky spending everything he had on the deposit while Steve paid nothing at all. They had fought bitterly about it at first, fuelled by Steve feeling useless and still working through the anger his mother’s sudden death had thrust upon him. But eventually his desperation to get out of the Rogers’ apartment had won over, and he had acquiesced. Bucky would pay for the deposit and the first month’s rent, and then they would split the rest of the rent equally once Steve started getting more commissions.

It hadn’t been a lie. Bucky really did have enough saved up – at first. But it seemed one thing after another had wretched the money from his hands; the Barnes’ stove had broken, the girls needed new shoes, he had dropped and broken merchandise at the docks that the manufacturer made him pay for…

In the weeks before they signed the lease, Bucky had tried so hard to make the money stretch – he had stopped drinking and going out entirely, and had cut himself down to one meal per day even though he was worried he would pass out off the edge of the docks and drown. But every time he opened the coffee tin that held the key to their new life of independence together, it looked a little more empty. Even as the money dwindled and the panic spiralled, he couldn’t tell Steve, enamoured with the way he would describe their new apartment and all the fun they would have living together. He couldn’t break his heart by telling him they were too broke for the new life they had dreamed of.

Their new landlord had been kinder than Steve and Sarah’s old one. He had listened, somewhat sceptically, as Bucky explained the situation, and had eventually agreed not to take the first month’s rent upfront. Bucky’s savings and a small loan from his mother that he resolutely did not tell Steve about just about stretched to cover the deposit. But there was no way he would be able to pull together the rent he had to pay by the end of the month. There was no way he would be able to afford medicine if Steve got sick again, which he was bound to sooner or later. There was no way this situation was sustainable, unless Bucky found some extra money, and quickly.

The lease had been signed and they had moved their meagre possessions in, and all the while Steve had looked happier than he had since before his Ma got sick. Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was all about to fall apart around them because of him. It was too late, anyway.

Instead, he'd ended up here, shaking with fear and anticipation and desperation in the worst part of town, waiting for a stranger to fuck him for pocket change. Compared to watching Steve’s face as he admitted he’d been lying about the money for weeks and they were about to become homeless, it didn’t seem like that bad of an option.

He’s never been with a man before. There have been kisses and fumbles with similarly scared and confused boys on the fire escape at parties after Steve has called it a night, or with men much too old for him outside those bars in the Village, fuelled by the liquor that has been flowing freely since Prohibition ended last winter. But he’s never done anything _more_ – he’s never… _gone all the way_. The fact that he can’t even say it in his head – _sex_ , he’s never had _sex,_ instead of some euphemism – makes him feel far too young to be standing on the street corner, about to make such a life-altering decision.

If he’s being entirely honest with himself, his curiosity is part of the reason he’s out here. He knows he’s queer. The late-night fumbles he’s forced himself through with the sweet girls he’s taken out to maintain his reputation as a ladies man have been nothing compared to his experiences with boys. The girls are pretty – he can recognise that, objectively. They smell good, and their skin is soft, and when they flutter their long eyelashes at him and push their curls behind their ear, he thinks _I wish I could feel something for you._

But he can’t.

He’s had the opportunity, a few times, to go all the way with a girl – the one’s that his father would have called ‘loose’, a term Bucky finds distasteful and hypocritical. But he already knows that it would do nothing for him, even if he could find the courage to go through with it. He’s never quite had the opportunity with a man, before. The boys his age that he’s fooled around with in the dark have been like him, too scared of getting caught or getting hurt, and he doesn’t trust the discretion or the judgement of the older men outside the queer bars, not when they’ve both a few drinks deep.

But here, it’s on his terms. He’s sober, and he’s armed. He can finally figure out if this is what he wants – if this is who he is, once and for all. If he likes it, then he’s figured himself out. If he hates it, then he still got paid, and he can go and beg one of his ‘loose’ girls for another chance.

Still, the mechanics of the act make him nervous. He’s not stupid – he knows how it works. Knows that two men can do the things a woman and a man can do, even if he doesn’t have the right parts; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how they’ll fit together. It scares him, though – it surely has to hurt. He’d experimented a little with his fingers when he’d had a rare day off and Stevie had been out grocery shopping, but it had burned so badly he’d given up after a few seconds and could never gather the courage to try again.

Strange, then, that he’s gathered the courage to do _this._ He thinks it’s because that little experimentation session had been for him – trying to figure himself out, or gain a little pleasure, or _something -_ whereas this is for Steve. He’s always been brave when it comes to Stevie, even if he’s a coward in all other aspects of his life. Alone, he’d never get into the fights he wades into to drag Steve out, often against guys much bigger than both of them. He’d never stand up for the people and causes that Steve does by himself, even when he believes in them just as much as Steve does – he’d keep his head down and try not to rock the boat. But Steve makes him better, and braver, willing to put himself on the line for something beyond himself.

Like tonight.

That’s why Steve can never know. Alone, Bucky could just about feed himself, with his wages from the docks. But with Stevie only able to bring in a fraction in wages of what he costs in food, medicine and hospital bills, they’re rapidly digging themselves even deeper into poverty. Bucky has plenty of resentment towards the hand Steve has been dealt in life – but only because it causes Steve pain, puts his life at stake, and makes it so Steve can't physically do all the things that he wants to do, things that he _deserves_ to be able to do. Bucky has never resented Steve for his sickness, no matter how much time and money and prayers and stress his frequent health scares cost the both of them. None of this is Steve’s fault, but if he were to find out he would blame himself forever, would never absolve himself of the guilt of putting Bucky in this situation. This is Bucky’s choice, but Steve would never see it that way.

 _You want this,_ he tells his trembling hands as they fumble with his busted lighter to spark up a cigarette, He’d won the cigarettes in a card game down at the docks over lunch, and even though he knows they’re a shitty brand, sparking one up feels like a luxury. Clamping his right hand down over his left to attempt to stop the shaking, he blows the smoke out into the cool summer night air. It helps, a little. The cigarette makes him feel like a different person – someone more grown-up, more experienced. He can remove himself from the situation a little as a man in a dark coat approaches him, like he’s having an out of body experience, watching the meeting from amongst the iron street lamps hanging over them. The hand holding the cigarette doesn’t feel like it belongs to him, anymore, and the man’s footsteps sound like they’re coming from very far away even as he ducks into the alley so he’s face to face with Bucky.

_Bucky Barnes couldn’t afford cigarettes. Bucky Barnes wouldn’t be smoking. Bucky Barnes isn’t doing this._

The idea for this… _career choice_ had come to him after a night on the town. He had a routine, now. A few nights a week, as the workday ended, he would accept an invitation from his fellow dock hands to go drinking later that night. He’d run home to change, scrubbing away the ever-present ‘dock-smell’ of sweat and fish as best as he could and running a comb through his hair as Steve looked on, amused. He’d shovel down some dinner, provided Steve hadn’t burnt it that day, and promise Steve that he wouldn’t drink too much or do anything stupid as he ran back out the door and over to the bar.

The older guys from the docks liked him because he did twice as much work as the other boys his age and never complained, and they’d always buy him a drink or two. Bucky wasn’t anywhere near as slight as Steve, but he was still lithe, and between being overworked and malnourished the drinks would go straight to his head. A little liquid courage was all he needed to wave goodbye to his buddies from the docks, telling them he was turning in for the night after a few hours. He’d tell Stevie he was out with his colleagues until the early hours of the morning.

Instead, he would go to the Village.

Speakeasies had lost their appeal once prohibition had ended, and the so-called ‘Pansy Craze’ that saw gay bars surge in popularity in the late ‘20s had been cruelly put down by the mid-‘30s. The men and women Bucky met there spoke wistfully of a time just a few years prior, where the clubs were packed full of men dressed as women and women as men, of love and music and feathers and glitter. There had been balls and concerts and galas, and long nights of singing and dancing and being _free_ , before the police decided they had let the depravity go unchecked for too long.

Not for the first time, Bucky wishes he was a little older – he would have loved to see these places in their prime, filled with colourful people united by their strangeness and sins. Here, in the clubs, was perhaps the only time in their lives that they didn’t have to be afraid. Now, even that meagre kinship and security had been lost – the mayor had stationed cops down the block from every known queer bar, and the risk of a raid was a constant black cloud looming over them all. Everyone looked at their fellow club-goers, especially newbies like Bucky, with suspicion, as if they were waiting for them to reveal themselves as an undercover cop. Every time a young man left with a stranger, the crowd would wonder if they would ever see him again, or if he would show up dead in the papers like so many others.

It was risky, coming here, and Bucky never dared to go home with anyone – but in the thick of a crowd of people just like him, Bucky could stop pretending to be normal for a few glorious hours, and just live. The risks of being seen here, be it arrest, death, castration, lobotomy, or that awful ‘therapy’ he had heard whisperings of on quiet nights at the bar, seemed worth it for the peace his surroundings brought to him.

The night in question, Bucky had managed to schmooze a few drinks from his dock buddies before heading over to the Village, ducking into one of his familiar haunts with a little tipsy confidence in his step. He had danced, and let himself be touched and swayed and moved by the crowd.

The women had told him he was pretty, he was so sweet, he was too young, shouldn’t he be at home? The men had told him he was beautiful, he would be a stunner when he was older, he had the prettiest eyes, wouldn’t he let them buy him a drink?

The man he ended up with hadn’t bothered asking for Bucky’s name, likely knowing he wouldn’t get an honest answer anyway. Instead, he’d bought Bucky a drink or two and they had made small talk at the bar, both avoiding any topic that could identify them. The man was tall with broad shoulders, blonde with startling blue eyes, and Bucky tried very hard not to think about why he had chosen this particular man from the many that had had their eyes on him tonight. He had watched Bucky’s throat with thinly veiled lust when the younger man had tipped back the whiskey glass, and it had made Bucky feel powerful – here he was, barely 17, and he had this man wrapped around his little finger, hungry for Bucky to take pity on him and give him what he wanted. Feeling bold from the head rush of whiskey and being wanted, Bucky had placed a hand on the older man’s thigh and laughed a little too loudly at something he had said, and that had been all it had taken.

Even in the dim light of the club, Bucky could see the hardness in the other man’s slacks and felt a rush of something like pride at causing such a reaction, at being _wanted_. The older man shifted his legs so that Bucky’s hand slid further upwards, resting lightly on the hardness that he could now feel beneath his palm. He didn’t protest when the man pulled him from the bar stool, leading him past the curtains into a backstage area beyond the bathrooms that they definitely weren’t allowed in. After checking left and right and concluding that there was no one around to stop them, the man led Bucky into an abandoned dressing room with a strong hand on his lower back.

They had kissed, then, moulding their bodies together until there was no space left between them. Bucky felt drunk and desperate and too warm, wanting more but unable to ask for it over the constant stream of _this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong_ that ran in his head on repeat.

The man hadn’t waited for him to ask for more, though. He had slotted a thigh in between Bucky’s and ground against him, planting big, strong hands on his hips and pinning him against the wall in a way that made Bucky shiver with arousal and fear in equal measure.

“You’re so pretty,” the man had panted, sounding unreasonably close when they’d only been grinding on each other for a few minutes, “How much for a suckjob?”

It had taken a good few seconds for the question to penetrate his lust addled brain, but when it had, he had felt his blood turn to ice and his whole body freeze in place. _How much?!_

“What do you think I am?” Bucky had growled, shoving the man off of him. The man seemed to realise he had fucked up, raising his hands placatingly and reaching for Bucky, but it was too late; the damage had been done.

Spitting mad but mostly just embarrassed, Bucky had torn out of the room, throwing aside the curtain that led to the rest of the club and shoving through the crowd with no regard for the drinks he spilt on his way. He just had to get out of there.

Is that what he had looked like, sliding his hand up a strange old man’s thigh? Letting them get him drunk and rub all over him, pretending to be a grown-up? Had all the men who had been eyeing him up really thought he was pretty, or had they been laughing at him, at the picture he had painted for them? Eager and desperate, like a- like -

He’d been shaking by the time he’d gotten back to his and Steve’s apartment, with a combination of fear, anger and humiliation. And of course, when he had crawled into their bed, wanting nothing more than to burrow down in the blankets and let the world pass him by, Steve had woken up.

He’s known something wasn’t right instantly – maybe it was Bucky’s mussed hair and dishevelled clothes, or his red-rimmed eyes, or the whiskey on his breath.

“Hmmph, Buck?” Steve had muttered sleepily, and Bucky had merely hummed in response, attempting to feign being asleep, but realising too late that he hadn’t actually changed out of his clothes before he’d crawled into bed. Steve's eyes had opened slowly at first, but he snapped into wakefulness with startling urgency when his sleep-addled brain had taken in the trembling lip Bucky had been trying to tame.

Unsurprisingly, it had ended in a fight; Bucky’s steadfast denial that anything out of the ordinary had happened butting heads with Steve’s uncanny ability to see straight through Bucky’s bullshit.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” Steve had exploded before Bucky had stormed out of their bedroom to sleep on the couch, “Don’t you trust me?”

The simplicity of the question, in contrast to the complexity of his situation, made Bucky want to tear out his hair. _It’s not that simple,_ he wanted to scream, _I trust you, but there are things I can’t tell you._

What could he possibly say to explain what had happened and how it had made him feel to Steve?

_A man thought I was a whore, when really I was gonna let him do me for free? By the way, I’ve been lying to you for years, and you’ve been sharing your bed with a queer?_

Lying on the couch, still seething with anger at Steve and the man and himself, the thought that he should have just stayed in the club passed through his mind unbidden. That man had still wanted him, after all, even if he had thought he had to pay to get him. And hell, he might have gotten laid and come out of it with a little extra cash – it doesn’t seem like such a raw deal in hindsight.

The cold of the living room air still seems warmer than Steve’s cold shoulder, and as he wraps a blanket tighter around his body on the couch, he longs to be held in strong arms, pressed tightly into another human being who truly _wants_ him, whoever that may be.

The idea had sat with him for days afterwards, merely an idle fantasy until another red bill had found its way through their mailbox. After that, it had become a plan. It would be easiest, and perhaps safest, to go back to the club, but he couldn’t bear the thought of one of the regular patrons or bartenders that he had struck up a friendship with over the last year seeing him selling himself.

He told his friends from the docks that he was feeling sick and wouldn’t be coming out tonight. He told Stevie it was Jackson from the docks’ birthday and he’d be out all night. He took the backstreets to the harbour, paralyzed with the fear of someone he knew seeing him and knowing, just from the guilty set of his shoulders, what he was about to do.

He had found himself here; in the entrance of an alley far from home, with a tall, heavyset man looming over him hungrily.

The man is speaking, but the noise sounds like it’s coming from miles away. Bucky manages to tune back in just in time to talk business.

“-beautiful. How much to fuck you, doll?”

He’s thought about this – he’s beginning to realise it’s one of the few aspects of this whole affair that he has actually thought through.

“A dollar fifty,” He tells the man, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t protest. It’s a lot of money - a whole days work - but he figured he’d start high in case they try and negotiate him down. But this man doesn’t look like he’s about to do any negotiation – maybe his price was too low? It’s not like he’s been on either end of this transaction before. The john hadn’t even asked what Bucky was out here doing – it must be obvious, from how he looks and the way he’s holding himself. The thought that anyone passing by will see through him so easily makes him feel deeply ashamed, and he ducks his head to hide his flushed cheeks as he throws down his cigarette butt and stamps it out.

The john drags his eyes slowly up and down Bucky’s body like he’s picturing what’s underneath his clothes, and puts a firm hand on the small of his back to lead them both further into the alley. Suddenly, Bucky is gripped by the terror that's been threatening to worm it's way to the surface all evening, and his feet won’t cooperate, keeping him rooted to the spot.

“It’s my first time,” He blurts out before he can stop himself, and the man freezes in his tracks. He regards Bucky for a moment, eyes wide with surprise, flicking his gaze up and down his body before settling on Bucky’s face. He frowns a little at whatever he finds there, then simply shakes his head and tugs a little on Bucky’s arm to get him to move.

“Huh. That’s cute. I almost believed you, ya know. You got that whole innocent doe-eyed thing down, sweetheart.”

In hindsight, it’s not surprising that the john doesn’t believe him – who gives it up for the first time like _this_?

“What’s your name, doll?” The man asks, and Bucky panics, scrambling for any name except his own. He really, really did not put the forethought into this plan that he should have.

“Grant,” he tells the man, then winces, apologising silently to Steve for using his middle name like this but unable to come up with anything else on the fly. The man doesn’t seem to notice his distress, or just doesn’t care – it’s not like he expected to get Bucky’s real name, anyway.

“I’m Steven,” the man tells him, and that actually makes Bucky flinch. It’s undoubtedly a fake name, but couldn’t he have come up with literally anything else?

The man pushes him further down the alley, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone, before shoving Bucky into a little alcove beside the dumpster so they’re completely hidden from view. It’s not like he was expecting to be taken to a fancy hotel or anything, but the reality of losing his virginity in a public alleyway, next to a dumpster that smells like rotting meat, is hitting him hard. He plants his feet firmly to stop himself from taking off running as the man spins him around and gets him to brace himself against the wall. He has to do this, for Steve.

The john plasters himself to Bucky’s back, grinding his hips against the younger man’s ass and reaching a hand round to rub against Bucky’s own cock. They stay like that for a moment until the man gives his still soft cock an impatient squeeze.

“Get on with it, then,” the john tells him, and it takes Bucky a second to realise that he should be unbuckling his belt. He does so with trembling hands, every action making this more and more real. He longs for the feeling he’d had earlier in the night, of being removed from himself, of watching from above. Now, he is an unwilling occupant of his own body, trapped in his own flesh even as he loses control over it.

Once his pants are around his ankles, the stranger kicks his feet apart so his legs are spread wantonly, exposing him to the cool night air and the man’s predatory gaze. He shoves one finger into Bucky without preamble, testing to see how stretched he is, and it hurts so badly that Bucky lets out a startled yelp, making the man flinch back in surprise.

“W-wait-“ Bucky stutters, pushing his hips forward to escape the intrusion.

“Holy shit. This actually is your first time. I thought you were just angling for some more money,” The man says, looking dumbfounded, but his expression is tainted with something predatory, like he’s looking at a feast he can’t believe has been laid out just for him, “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll treat you right.”

He retracts his finger with surprising gentleness and pulls something out of his pocket. Bucky realises with a start how truly unprepared he was for this situation when he hears the click of a tin being opened. He hadn’t even thought to bring slick – _Jesus,_ he’s lucky that this guy didn’t just try to push in straight away.

This time, when a finger enters him, it’s slick with Vaseline and circles around his entrance a few times until his muscles unclench and his shoulders lower a little. He understands enough about his body to know that he needs to relax, but it’s easier said than done.

“Next time you’re out here,” the man advises as he adds another finger and twists them inside Bucky, “You’re gonna wanna stretch yourself out before you pick up a john. Not everyone’s as sweet as me, doll.”

It hurts, even with the slick and the slower pace, but Bucky can only bite the inside of his cheek and dig his nails into the brick wall. The man seems exponentially more excited now he knows that he really is taking Bucky’s virginity, and it makes Bucky uneasy. It hadn’t been a big deal, in his head, but this man seems to be making it one. If his first time should be something important, something special, it should be next to a dumpster with a stranger, should it?

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you for everyone else, doll,” He says as he adds a third finger, “No one’s ever gonna fuck you as good as I do, I swear”

Bucky can only roll his eyes, glad that his face is pressed into the bricks of the alleyway so the john doesn’t see him. The initial pain has worn off a little, and now the intrusion of his fingers just feels strange – it’s certainly not pleasurable. But he knows they haven’t gotten to the main event, not yet.

As if reading his thoughts, the man removes his fingers slowly, clearly deeming Bucky to be thoroughly stretched. He puts both his hands on Bucky’s ass and spreads his cheeks, groaning at the sight of Bucky’s hole, open and clenching around empty air. It makes Bucky blush, the embarrassment of being so vulnerable and exposed causing him to squirm. The man doesn’t seem to notice, or at least doesn’t care if he does. Bucky hears the click of the Vaseline tin once again as the man slicks himself up, but he spits on Bucky’s hole for good measure regardless. That simple act is so demeaning, and makes him feel so dirty, that he’s on the verge of tears before the man even lines himself up.

But he’s come this far. He can’t stop now. He’s not even sure if the man would _let_ him stop.

When the man begins to push in, it becomes clear that he has not been as thoroughly prepared as he believed. But his john doesn’t care. At the first sign of resistance, he tightens his grip on Bucky’s hips and just pushes harder, jerking his hips in and out in tiny thrusts to attempt to work his way in. Bucky grits his teeth at the awful stretch, so much worse than that first finger. Even with slick and three of the man’s fingers, it feels like he’s being split open, torn apart from the inside. He bites his lip to keep the scream that threatens to tear free inside, and tries to relax his muscles, willing his body to listen to him.

“So tight,” the man groans, but he says it like it’s a good thing – to Bucky, it feels like a curse. He’s beginning to think that it isn’t going to fit when he feels the sharp edges of the man’s pelvic bones meet his ass, and he realises that he’s bottomed out.

Graciously, the man gives him a few moments to adjust before he starts thrusting. It’s not long enough, but it’s something, and the initial pain seems easier to bear now he’s all the way in. He debates putting a stop to this now, but it feels like that possibility, had it ever existed, has long since passed – and if he stops now, he’s not going to get paid, and he will have gone through all this pain for _nothing._

The first few thrusts still feel strange and uncomfortable, but they’re only slightly painful, so Bucky considers that a win. The man is groaning loudly now, almost certainly leaving finger-shaped bruises on Bucky’s hips, and panting wet breaths against the back of his neck. At least one of them is enjoying themselves. The thrusts speed up and become more forceful as the man becomes more sure of himself, now fully convinced that Bucky can take it without breaking. Little noises are knocked out of Bucky on every push in, and the man seems encouraged by them, likely taking his groans of discomfort for moans of pleasure. There is sweat building up under his shirt where the man has plastered himself against Bucky’s back, and the dull slap of skin against skin in the quiet of the Brooklyn night is making him feel ill.

Then, after a minute or two, the john’s angle changes just so, and Bucky feels an unexpected spark of pleasure that leaves him gasping.

“ _Oh_ ,” Bucky says aloud, and he can practically feel the man’s smug grin against the back of his neck.

“Yeah, you like that doll?” He says, not waiting for an answer before he pounds in at the same angle a little harder, “Right there, huh?”

It’s not great, and he would still rather be anywhere but here. The slight spark of pleasure isn’t enough to dull the pain, or humiliation, or the feeling of loss and violation that has taken a bone-deep hold on him. But it’s something to cling on to in order to get through this without breaking down. It makes him think that maybe, done right, this act could be pleasurable for him. If he were spread out on a bed with someone above him that would take their time, stretch him out slow and gentle until he was really ready. Maybe if he was with someone with slim, clever artist's fingers and kind blue eyes that would watch his own for any signs of discomfort or pain. The thought of what his first time could have been like, _should_ have been like, is what finally tips him over the edge and the tears that have been threatening to spill since the man approached him finally break free. He should be giving himself up, in this, the most intimate of ways, to Steve and Steve alone. But it’s too late – he’s been defiled, has ruined himself for pocket change. Even if Steve felt a fraction of what Bucky feels for him, he would never want to touch him now.

But Steve doesn’t love him, so it doesn’t really matter. Steve isn’t queer – he’s normal, and eventually, he’ll find a special dame who can see his big heart behind his frail exterior, and he’ll have a happy, normal family. He’d never touch Bucky how he wants him to – he’d certainly never do _this_ to him. All other men pale in comparison to Steve, so what does it matter how he loses his virginity, or who he sleeps with? Whether he’s laid out on a hotel bed or bent over a dumpster, it still won’t be with Steve.

But as the john thrusts inside him at just the right angle once again, both of them ignoring the tears now streaming down his face, he can’t help but imagine what it would be like if it _was_ with Steve.

He’d want to get his mouth on Steve, first of all. They’d have all the windows open to let the cold night air cool their too-warm skin, and they wouldn’t give a fuck if the neighbours heard them, too wrapped up in each other.

Steve would call him ‘doll’, but not in the sleazy way this john does – he’d say it with reverence in his voice, sliding his thumb over the side of Bucky’s jaw when Bucky got on his knees for him, and threading his hands gently into his brown hair. He’d tell Bucky how pretty he looked like that, and be so, so gentle that Bucky would have to beg for him to let go and claim him.

“I don’t wanna finish yet, doll,” he’d say through laboured breaths when he gently pulled Bucky’s mouth off him, and Bucky would crawl up his body for another passionate kiss.

Steve would be corny as hell – he’d never call it fucking. He’d say “Buck, I wanna make love to you” and Bucky would tease him about it mercilessly, pretending it didn’t make his heart jump with joy. When he opened Bucky up, he’d be so careful, making it good for him, twisting his slim fingers just right to get Bucky’s back arching off their bed. When he pushed in, it would feel like two halves of a whole meeting. They’d be as close to each other as they could physically be, and they’d be so overwhelmed the pair would be unable to do anything but cling to each other for a moment.

When he finally started thrusting, it would be so _good_ , his slim hips working between Bucky’s spread thighs to hit that spot inside him that made his vision blur at the edges and his mind go blank with pleasure, and -

“ _Steve_ ,” he breathes, and freezes when he realised he’s moaned the name out loud. But his john doesn’t seem to mind, only thrusting harder and gripping his hips tight enough the bruise.

“Love it when you say my name, doll,” the man moans, and o _f course._ His name is Steven, too.

He suddenly feels dirty, and like he has defiled Steve along with himself by thinking of him like this. How could he bring Steve into this, even in his mind, into this disgusting act that Bucky has lowered himself to?

The man’s thrusts are getting erratic now, losing the stable rhythm he began with and alternating between sharp, quick thrusts and hard shoves that have Bucky’s hips knocking painfully into the brick wall in front of him. Some of them still hit that place inside of him, and the pleasure feels like a bubble around him, separating him from the dumpster and piss-soaked bricks and the stranger using his body. But it isn’t enough. He hasn’t even gotten hard throughout this encounter – the man hasn’t so much as reached around to check, utterly uncaring about Bucky’s pleasure, like he’s simply a tool to be used and discarded, not a human being.

He doesn’t feel much like a human being right now, anyway. For a second he gets that feeling again; like he’s floating above himself, watching from amongst the streetlights across the road, removed from his physical body, but he is dragged sharply back to himself as the man finally finishes.

He can _feel_ it, inside of him, and he bites his lip to keep from gagging at the feeling of sticky warmth flooding his insides, desperate to retreat into his head again like he had before. When the man - he refuses to call him Steven – pulls out, it drags a bitter whine from him, equal parts pain and embarrassment as he feels the man’s release dripping down his thighs. Bucky’s legs are shaking violently, and he’s not sure he could lift his forehead from the wall of the alley even if he wanted to.

“You were good, kid,” The john says, slapping Bucky’s ass as he tucks himself away and buttons his pants, leaving Bucky’s own pants around his thighs. Exposed like this, he feels very small, and far too young. He wants to run to his mother and cry into her skirts like he would as a child, pointing to the strange man that had done this to him and leaving the stranger to his mother’s mercy. He wants _Steve_ , to wrap him up in those skinny arms and tell him that it’s going to be okay, only letting him go to take a reckless swing at the john that had left him this way.

But he didn’t get anything he didn’t ask for. Bucky _wanted_ this.

The man drops a few bills on the closed lid of the dumpster and walks away without so much as glancing back at Bucky, like the whole affair was nothing to him. Bucky needs a few moments to gather himself before he can push away from the brick wall, leaning heavily on the dumpster to keep himself upright on trembling legs as he pulls his pants back up. His hands are shaking so violently that he can barely fasten his belt, and when he tries to pick up the money, he drops it twice before he can get a firm grip on it.

Spreading the small pile of notes in hands that feel like they don’t belong to him, he sees to his disbelief that it’s _four_ dollar bills. Nearly an entire month’s rent. The tears that had dried up a little during the encounter come rushing back to the surface, and he finds himself on his knees, leaning against the dumper with his fly still down and his ass aching, clutching the dollar bills like a lifeline. The relief is palpable – the weight on his shoulders that has dragged him lower and lower until he found himself _here_ suddenly feels a little more bearable, and the pain and humiliation seem almost worth it.

He sobs helplessly, unsure if he’s sad or happy or angry until he starts to shiver in the cold night air and forces himself back to his feet on shaking legs, still feeling disorientated. How he makes it home is anyone’s guess – he floats above his body amongst the streetlights once more as he moves on autopilot, right, then left, then right, taking a more direct route this time. In his stupor, he can’t bring himself to care about someone he knows seeing him, even though it must be infinitely more obvious what he has been up to now than it would have been on his way to the harbour.

He stumbles to a stop in front of a building that he knows, objectively, is his, but one that he feels no connection to. He climbs the fire escape the correct number of floors – three – but ends up in front of a door he doesn’t recognise, which he unlocks with someone else’s keys, held in a stranger’s trembling hands.

The small, barren apartment feels as foreign to him as his own body does, but he navigates it through muscle memory alone, not daring to turn on the lights lest he see himself in a stray reflection. He feels disconnected from the feeling of the floorboards against his feet when he toes off his boots, each footstep taking immense effort, like wading through mud. He pulls his clothes off and tosses them away with no regard for where they end up until he’s standing naked and dazed in the middle of their living room, unsure of quite how he ended up here. Blinking into the dark, he tries desperately to get his body to listen to the part of his brain that is still connected to it. _Shower, bed._ He should eat, too, but there’s no way he’ll be able to keep anything down.

It’s the middle of the night, and he’s so grateful to find that there’s still hot water that he breaks down into tears again. He’s not sure how long he’s in the shower for, staring a hole into the tiles as his mind replays his debasement at the hands of _Steven_ over and over again. When he finally snaps out of his daze, his skin is bright red and rubbed raw, as if he’s tried to remove the top layer of his body to get to something pure and untouched underneath.

 _It doesn’t exist,_ he thinks, _you’re damaged all the way down to the core._

He stuffs his underwear in the trash when he gets out of the shower, shoving them deep down into the can so Steve won’t find them and ask questions, and throws on another pair as he heads towards the bedroom.

There’s still a wall of fog between himself and the world, and everything he does feels like watching a movie of someone else doing it. But he could never get so far from himself that he wouldn’t recognise the figure in the bed.

Steve. _His Stevie._ Bucky comes back to himself piece by piece as he approaches, like he only truly knows himself in relation to Steve. He crawls in beside him, feeling more and more human as he does so, as if the warmth of Steve’s body is melting the ice that had settled in his veins since the other _Steven_ had first laid eyes on him. He’s torn between wanting to reach out, maybe even wake Steve up just to hear his voice and see those kind eyes, and wanting to flee, to keep this darkness that he’s brought upon himself as far from Steve as possible. Even after showering, he feels like his body is stained with dripping black ink, a physical representation of his defilement that he will paint over Steve’s skin if he dares to touch him, dragging him down with Bucky.

But the temptation is too strong, and he wraps his arm around Steve’s middle and snuggles closer to him, resting his forehead as gently as possible against Steve’s collar bone. It’s risky – Steve only allows so much physical contact without getting flustered and shoving Bucky off of him, unsure what kind of game he’s playing. Bucky has yet to find the words to tell him _there is no game, I just want to be close to you. You comfort me._

Steve blinks himself awake, tensing a little at the contact but relaxing almost immediately when he realises it’s just Bucky. He must be able to smell the whiskey on Bucky’s breath because he huffs out a laugh, for once unfazed by Bucky’s clinginess.

“Long night, Buck?”

He can’t answer. If he opens his mouth, it will all come pouring out, and Steve will leave him. It threatens to force itself out anyway, like a tidal wave straining against a dam, but all that escapes is a small, sad noise that is a little too close to a sob for comfort.

But even that is too much – Bucky feels Steve’s body freeze against his own, and he can’t bring himself to lift his head from Steve’s collarbone and meet his eye. Steve’s hand meets the side of his head and he gently tries to tilt Bucky’s jaw up so they can look at each other, but Bucky refuses to be swayed, only worrying Steve more.

“Bucky?” Steve asks in his most concerned voice, and the kindness Bucky hears there almost breaks him.

He’s suddenly terrified that he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake. He can smell the john’s cologne on his skin as if the other man is in the room with them, even though he knows the shower washed it all away. His rapid pulse seems to echo through the quiet room like a metronome, and the bruises on his hips appear to glow in the dark to his frenzied mind where he stupidly hasn’t put a shirt on over them. Steve will smell, Steve will hear, Steve will see – Steve will _know._ Bucky practically throws himself off their meagre mattress in an effort to get away.

He’s shaking, desperately trying to hold the tears at bay but knowing his eyes are so red from his bouts of sobbing earlier that Steve will know regardless – _he’s going to know, oh god, he going to know –_

“-okay, Bucky?” Steve is saying, and oh god, he’s missed most of that sentence, too wrapped up in his head. He had thought only a second had passed, just enough time for him to blink, but as he looks around he sees that he has practically thrown himself across the room to press his back into the wall furthest from the door, and the window, and Steve. A facsimile of safety, when the real threat is inside his own head, now.

Steve is kneeling on the ground halfway between the mattress and Bucky, his hands outstretched placatingly like he is trying to tame a wild animal.

“Can you hear me, Buck?” He’s saying, and _god_ Bucky wishes he would just yell, or tell him to fuck off and have a breakdown somewhere else, or at least roll over and go back to sleep. Anything would be better than the concern evident in his voice that cuts through Bucky like a dagger. _I don’t deserve your kindness._

“I’m fine,” He tries, but it comes out far too loudly, making both of them flinch, and his voice cracks so badly on the second word he’s not sure if Steve can even understand him.

“ _I’m fine_ ,” He tries again, more resolutely this time, and it almost sounds convincing, “Had a bit too much to drink, I guess. Sorry, Stevie.”

The trembling of his voice gives the excuse an authentic slur, but Steve clearly isn’t buying it. Bucky wouldn’t either, if he was in his right mind. He knows how he must look, cowering in a corner with wild eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his middle to hide the bruises on his hips, even in the darkened room. He looks _scared._

Steve is still coming closer, and he can’t – he can’t let him. He can’t let this touch him, too.

“I’m getting sick,” He tells Steve, desperate for an excuse that will keep some distance between them, “You gotta stay away, with your immune system. We can’t let it take both of us out.”

He sounds surprisingly cogent to his own ears, and Steve blinks in surprise at his sudden clarity when he’d been near-feral mere moments ago.

“Um,” Steve responds eloquently, at a loss, “Can I get you anything? Water, or, or soup?”

“It’s the middle of the night, Stevie,” Bucky says, chuckling fondly despite himself. Steve looks nervous, like he has no idea what to do in the face of Bucky’s whiplash mood changes, and shifts uncomfortably where he’s still on his knees in the middle of the floor.

“Are you alright, Buck? Just now, you looked – it was like you didn’t even know who I was.” Steve asks, and he looks _scared_ , eyes flicking over Bucky’s face, searching for something.

Bucky counts to five in his head before he lets himself respond, and then adds another five for good measure. By the time he’s able to open his mouth, it’s been far too long and his silence has answered Steve’s question more than his words ever could.

“I’m good, really – just – just a little confused, you know? Think I passed out for a second there and I wasn’t really sure where I was…” He trails off, knowing his excuse is flimsy before he even finishes it.

“Okay,” Steve says slowly, entirely unconvinced, “Shall I – I can go sleep on the couch, if you’re sick?”

It’s a sweet offer, but being alone in their bed, knowing his actions had driven Steve to an uncomfortable night in the living room would only make things worse.

“No, Stevie, you’ll fuck up your back. I’ll sleep on the couch. “

“But you’re the one who’s sick! Let me-“

“ _Steve_ ,” He snaps, a little too sharp and a little too loud, patience suddenly reaching its end. Steve actually flinches backwards at his sudden change in tone, and doesn’t that make him feel even more like shit. He shouldn’t be taking this out on Steve, for god’s sake, “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

Steve doesn’t protest further, just watches him go with concern painted across his tired face. He looks like he’s torn between worrying that Bucky is cracking up, and worrying that he’s done something to piss Bucky off.

 _It’s not you who’s done something wrong_ , Bucky wants to say, _it’s me. God, it’s me._

But he can’t. He’s trapped himself in a web of unspeakable deeds; to ask for comfort aloud would condemn him to never receive it. If he spilt his guts like he wanted to, if he bore all to Steve in this moment, if he asked for help – Steve would never be able to look him in the eye again.

All of a sudden, he feels cripplingly lonely, even with Steve mere feet away, and his mother and baby sisters tucked up in their beds across town.

He’s left their bedroom door open a crack, and Steve hasn’t bothered to close it, so he watches Steve drift back into sleep while the same destination alludes him. The bruises on his hips feel like open wounds and rub painfully against the couch cushions as he lies back. His thighs won’t stop shaking, and the trembling in his hands has gotten so bad he doesn’t dare pour a glass of water for fear of shattering it on their kitchen tiles. He feels dirty, used, violated. He feels like a _whore._

He doesn’t want to do it again.

But as he watches the steady rise and fall of Steve’s chest become more laboured, the tell-tale sign that another bout of sickness is on its way, he already knows that he will.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: underage sex (Bucky is 17 in this fic), prostitution, internalised homophobia, period typical slurs and attitudes towards women and gay men. Bucky dissociates throughout much of this but doesn't understand what is happening to him. Because of his internalised homophobia and low self worth, Bucky believes that having sex with men is wrong, but doesn't really see the issue with sleeping with much older men as a minor or dangerously selling himself. He has a lot of self hatred and little to no regard for his own personal safety.


End file.
